


Coitus Interruptus

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dominance, Gloves, Hand & Finger Kink, Kissing, Licking, M/M, Masturbation, Submission, Wrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2227440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty, having returned home early, interrupts Moran's sexual fantasy.</p><p>Inspired by the prompt from anon: something with Moriarty/Moran and wristkink (Moran kissing Moriarty's wrists?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coitus Interruptus

   It is a very lovely fantasy indeed, imagining the professor’s weight on top of him pressing him back into the pillows, the professor’s hand on his cock, the professor’s cool blue-grey eyes looking into his as he leans forward to kiss the colonel.

    Moran groans as he thinks of Moriarty’s soft lips meeting his, and the groan sounds suspiciously like a cry of, ‘ _James!’_

    “I am reassured to know that you think of me when you touch yourself,” Moriarty calls out, and Moran’s eyes fly open.

    “Professor.” He sits up abruptly and stares at the figure standing there in the doorway. Moriarty’s cheeks seem flushed though unlike Moran the colour in his face would appear to come from the cold outside, not embarrassment. “I didn’t… I…”

    “Did not know I was back?” Moriarty gives him a thin smirk as he eyes the colonel’s dishevelled state, his hair tousled, stripped down to his shirtsleeves with his braces hanging slack by his sides and his trousers slid partway down his narrow hips. “Evidently.” He removes his jacket as he stands there regarding the colonel, though he still has his gloves on.

    “I…” Moran looks down at his lap, at his obvious arousal, deciding it is futile to try to preserve his modesty but wondering just what it is about the professor that makes this seem _so_ humiliating. Moriarty has seen him in worse states before – completely naked, achingly aroused, wanton and desperate and then in the throes of his release. But perhaps this reminds Moran too much of his father walking in on him when he was a lad. He moves to slide off the bed. “I’ll go and-”

    “Stay there.” Moriarty pushes him down with a hand to the chest and leaves it there. “Really, Colonel, relieving yourself without my permission? How very forthright of you.”

    “Sir…” Moran swallows thickly, keeping his gaze lowered, though there is still an edge of steel in his voice when he says, “You never forbade it, sir.”

    “Yet I did not permit it either.” Moriarty shifts his gloved hand to Moran’s chin and gently lifts it until Moran is forced to meet his gaze.

    Moran looks back at him for a second or two. “You don’t _permit_ me to take a piss neither, but I _presume_ I’m allowed to do so. I had thought, after all _, sir_ , you did not wish to have some mindless slave who needs to be ordered to do or not do every little thing.”

    This causes a brief smile to flicker across the professor’s features. His Moran, so feisty, so spirited, when challenged. How utterly _delicious_. Yet such insolence cannot be allowed to pass without his acting upon it, of course, no matter how delightful it may be, lest Moran forgets his place.

    “Of course,” he says, running his thumb over Moran’s jaw. “But there is a vast difference between _passing water_ , and sexual release.”

    Moran shrugs slightly. “It’s all biological functions.”

    “One which is vital, while the other is not.”

    “It’s pretty vital to me.” Moran flashes him a wicked grin and Moriarty rolls his eyes in mock consternation.

    “And you could not wait until my return?”

    Moran shrugs again. “I thought you’d be too tired when you got back, or just not interested tonight.”

    “Ah, so you merely wished to spare me, did you, pet? This act was entirely selfless, hmm?” Moriarty says this so softly, so reasonably, yet in precisely the sort of tone which with most other people would mean he is about to do something very, _very_ horrible to them.

    “Well… not _entirely_ ,” Moran admits with a grin.

    The professor chuckles, brushing his hand across Moran’s cheek before dropping it in front of the colonel’s face. “If you would be so kind,” he says, “as to remove my glove.”

    Moran looks at him for one second, no more, before turning his attention to this task. The glove is of soft black deerskin, wonderfully supple and fitting snugly around the professor’s hand. It gives off the pleasing whiff of leather when Moran takes Moriarty’s hand in his, unable to resist pressing his face close against it momentarily, breathing in its scent. Only then does he begin to remove it, slowly easing it off, careful not to jolt the professor as he bares the back of his hand, his thumb, each of Moriarty’s fingers.

    “Good boy,” Moriarty says softly. “Now, the other one.”

    Moran sets the first glove down on the bed beside him before directing his attention to Moriarty’s left glove, drawing this one off with just as much care and attention before setting it down with its mate upon the bed.

    Moriarty puts his now bare hand to Moran’s mouth, rubbing the pad of his thumb along Moran’s lower lip, watching him all the while as he moves his thumb from the right corner of Moran’s mouth to the left, then back, but on the third swipe he pauses and with the slightest quirk of his eyebrow he instructs Moran what to do next.

    Moran engulfs the professor’s thumb in his mouth, up to the knuckle, pausing for a second, then moving past it, drawing the digit between his lips, pressing his tongue against its underside, this all done with great gentleness and reverence.

    Moriarty allows his eyes to slip half-closed for a moment as he considers these sensations, revelling in the warmth and the soft wetness of Moran’s mouth against his cold skin. Perhaps, just perhaps, when he opens his eyes fully and when he utters his next words there is the slightest catch in his voice. “Moran, my dove.” He gently withdraws his thumb from Moran’s mouth, noting how Moran allows this without protest, how he sits patiently awaiting the next instruction, despite his still extremely obvious _excitement_. Moriarty turns his arm over, his palm upwards as he holds it out to Moran. “Undo my sleeve.”

    Moran reaches up and removes the gold cufflink, setting this carefully aside on the bedside table. With the cufflink gone this causes the two sides of the cuff to fall partly open, partially baring the professor’s wrist. Moran accentuates this further by slowly folding the cuff back, rolling the sleeve partway up Moriarty’s arm, inch by inch exposing his skin.

 “ _Professor,_ ” he says, flicking his gaze up questioningly, his request being answered with the most cursory of nods, but it is enough. Cradling Moriarty’s hand gently in his, lightly supporting Moriarty’s arm, he bows his head to kiss the underside of the professor’s wrist, brushing his lips over the pale skin, over the delicate threads of those blue veins beneath the surface. He kisses slowly up Moriarty’s arm, using just his lips, noticing how Moriarty shivers slightly at the sensations of Moran’s somewhat rough lips and his rougher facial hair tickling against his skin, but does not flinch nor pull away.

    Now Moran changes from lips to tongue, tracing the very tip over the professor’s skin, tasting him - what little there is to taste (the faintest trace of salt, perhaps, and a vague hint of the chalk that has dusted his hands while he writes upon a blackboard). Moran’s eyes are closed now; other senses seem more important than sight at this moment, not just the taste but the smell of the professor, the scent of his cologne, of his hair oil and the aroma of the cold, damp, gaslit London streets that clings to him still. There is the feel of him too, the pleasant coolness of the professor’s skin against his own warmth; the simple sense also of the professor’s firm solidity as he stands there, and now the feeling of the fingers of Moriarty’s right hand brushing over the top of his head, pushing through his hair.

    Moriarty cradles the back of Moran’s head with his right hand while Moran continues to lick along the length of his left wrist, aware all the while that Moran’s prick is still standing up stiffly between his legs despite not having been touched in some minutes now; aware too that Moran’s breath is warm and moist against his skin as it comes in hoarser, shorter pants now behind the kisses and the caresses of his tongue. First humiliated, now subjugated by his lover - his _master_ \- Moran is evidently not going to last more than a minute at the most.

    “James,” Moran murmurs between licks, eyes still closed, “James, Professor, I’m gonna… James… I’m gonna…”

    “Come, now,” Moriarty says softly but so very imperiously, in a manner that goes straight down Moran’s spine, shooting through his groin.

    Moran bites open-mouthed onto Moriarty’s wrist when he comes, not hard, indenting the skin but not even coming close to breaking it, even in this moment still mindful that he must never harm the professor. His cry of release is half-strangled against the professor’s skin; his eyes remain screwed tightly shut as he climaxes, his prick twitching as he spends vigorously.

    “Good boy,” Moriarty says softly, soothingly, stroking and petting Moran’s hair as he comes. “My good boy.” Regarding his companion with pleased possessiveness. He would never be so cruel as to truly forbid Moran to relieve himself when necessary, but to demonstrate that he has this power over Moran; to know that he can bring Moran to climax without even touching his prick; almost certainly also that he can coax a far more powerful _erotic_ reaction out of Moran than anything Moran can achieve alone, this knowledge sends a delightful thrill through the professor. Moran is his and his alone, his to control and dominate; his to play with and reduce to such a state of helpless, desperate lust, rendering this proud, strong man so wonderfully vulnerable and best of all knowing that he has achieved this not by force – which would make it a very hollow victory - but with Moran’s full and enthusiastic consent.

    Moran’s breath stutters as he lets out a shaky, almost sobbing gasp in the seconds after his orgasm. He presses his forehead against Moriarty’s forearm, as if not trusting himself to look up, until Moriarty gently lifts his face up.

    “All right?” Moriarty asks, and Moran nods.

    “Yes sir.”

    “Moran, my boy.” Moriarty sits down beside Moran now and draws the colonel to him with an arm slipped around his upper body.

    Moran leans against him, resting his head against Moriarty’s shoulder. “Do you want me to…?”

    “No, thank you. Just sit with me a moment.” Moriarty has no need for an orgasm at present – that was never the point of this. It gives him pleasure enough to know that he can wield such power over Moran, but there is satisfaction too to be found in how Moran settles contentedly against him, relaxed and happy after his climax, not trying to flee as once he almost inevitably would have done with most of his other sexual partners.

    Moriarty holds Moran until Moran’s pulse has slowed and his breathing has returned to a more normal rate, until the colonel’s composure returns. “You had best clean yourself up ready for dinner,” he remarks at last.

    “Right Professor.” But Moran makes no move away from Moriarty, preferring to idly run his fingertips up and down the professor’s still bare wrist for a few seconds.

    “Moran,” Moriarty says pointedly, though he is smiling as he says this, amused by his lover’s fixation upon him. “Go and get cleaned up.”

    “Yes sir.” Moran stands up at last, though just as he is about to stride away he stops and spins back, leaning over to put himself face to face with the professor again. There he remains, grinning mischievously at Moriarty.

    Moriarty eyes him briefly, understanding precisely what Moran wants, and with an exaggerated sigh he gives it to him, pressing a kiss to Moran’s lips. “ _Now_ will you go and get cleaned up?”

    “Yes sir.” Moran finally saunters away, leaving Moriarty sitting upon the edge of the bed.

    A change of shirt before dinner is in order, the professor thinks. He deftly removes the cufflink from his right sleeve, setting it down beside the other on the bedside table, reflecting on how incredibly mediocre this small task seems after having Moran remove the first cufflink for him.

    He will, he decides, have to return home unexpectedly early more often in future.

 


End file.
